Crossworlds
by Hyrule Goddess
Summary: Can love defy God Himself? Seperated by an ocean and over a century, can even the strongest love truly conquer all odds?
1. A Series of Unfortunate Events

Paris, France -- 2005

The Opera House was gorgeous, everything the pamphlet had said it would be. It was like living in the nineteenth century just walking into the foyer, everything in gold and marble, the grand staircase nothing like the novel, the musical, or even the movie had shown. L'Populaire was a beautiful to say the least, fully restored to how it had once been in its glorious days.

Aminta Mendelssohn, though her name suggested otherwise, was not Spanish at all. No, her name had been chosen by her father from the work of _Don Juan Triumphant_, the rather risqué opera by a composer rumored to be the legendary Opera Ghost himself. Her mother was 'American', her father French, and purely so one could tell by looking at the girl. The scoundrel had left early on in Aminta's life, moving to Paris with his mistress where he married her and started a whole new family, leaving his daughter with her mother.

And so here she was, in the foyer of the Opera Populaire in France. David Mendelssohn had a nasty habit of disappearing whenever his daughter was due for a visit, and true to tradition he had done so again, receiving a phone call just before he was to take his daughter sight-seeing. Well, Aminta had always been a curious thing, and so here she was on her own, father be damned. She was determined to have a bit of fun even if her father didn't wish to share it with her.

Ever since she was a little girl, Aminta had been fascinated by the story of the Phantom of the Opera. It was an easy thing to do, as her father had close ties to the Opera of the legend (being the current highest-donating patron) and her mother a costume designer for various shows that featured on Broadway, the Phantom of the Opera one among them. Aminta's mother had been reciting the story since she was a little girl, and the New Yorker had first read it in fifth grade. By then she was hooked. Anything and everything that had to do with her beloved story was read, listened to, or watched eagerly. Aminta had even written an essay on the infamous Opera Ghost once, and how she supposed his past must have been to cause him to behave so. She had failed of course, for the Phantom was simply a factious character. He had no past, only what was written of him.

Naturally, the Opera Populaire was the first place she wished to visit in Paris. Luckily enough it was also the first place the tour bus had taken her. It was a royal pain to have to follow a tour guide (patience was not something Aminta possessed a lot of), but there was really no other choice; it was either stay with the group or be thrown out, so Aminta had stayed.

"This way, this way." Came the heavily accented voice of the kindly (if rather portly) tour guide, but it was not until Antar gripped her arm she began to follow reluctantly.

Even being the rather anti-social person Aminta was, it was hard not to like Antar and his fraternal twin sister Erika. He was a great brute of a thing, but dim as a post with a disposition rather like a lapdog; friendly and always willing to please. Erika was quite the opposite. She was of slightly less than average height for a Persian her age, thin and limber with wit and brains in excess. Though being the good Muslim she was, she hardly ever acted on her threats. Aminta had taken a liking to both immediately, and was thrilled to find they were staying near where she was.

"Alright ladies and gentlemen, through these doors now, don't push. Are we all in then? Good." The old man spoke again in his thick Parisian accent. "May I present to you, Madames et Monsieurs, the Opera Ghost's private box: the Grand Tier's Box Five…" The man went on about how the profits had greatly declined during the nineteenth century because of the Ghost's demands the box be reserved for himself. Aminta however, was not listening.

"If I had an Opera at my feet, I'd request this box too!" She breathed, and Erika mumbled her agreement. "The view is…"

"Breathtaking, I believe you were going to say." The tour guide smiled joyfully. "I'm glad you like it, Mme Mendelssohn. Your father reserved it for you for this night's production of Don Giovanni. Said you had some sort of interest in the legend…"

"Interest would be an understatement, Monsieur." Aminta spoke in flawless French, receiving a jolly smile from the gentleman. "Wait a moment, how do you know my father?"

"He is the leading subscriber here, is he not? I doubt you'll find a man or woman in this place who does not know of him. And you look almost exactly like him. I simply guessed from there, Mam'zelle."

Aminta laughed a bit. "Well, there aren't many Frenchmen with brown curls and green eyes." She mumbled sarcastically. The man had begun talking again, filtering people from the room. Aminta was still quite reluctant to leave the awe-inspiring view, Erika and Antar trying to get her to come again.

"Ammie!" the young man nearly whined. "They're going to leave without us and we'll be thrown out…"

The New Yorker couldn't hear him though. Another sound had caught her ear.

**Sing, my Angel of Music!**

"Shut up Antar, listen!" And there the voice was again, hardly a whisper above the wind.

'I must be going mad…'

"Mme Mendelssohn, your father would be quite angry with me if I lost you." The tour guide stepped back into the room just as she straightened her posture and let out that first pure note, almost against her will.

Angel of Music; Guide and Guardian 

_Grant to me your glory!_

_Angel of Music, hide no longer_

_Come to me_

_Strange Angel..._

That last eerie note lingered in the air a fraction of a second before the ground began to shake and the lights flickered. Erika screamed and clung to her brother, the tour guide pulling Aminta away from the railing and into the relative safety of the Box. There was the odd sensation rather like the drop on a rollercoaster, and when the lights went out completely the New Yorker was certain the building had collapsed.

It had not though. Hardly thirty seconds after the lights went out the came back on again, still flickering a bit, gas lamps now instead of electric ones.

Even as Erika's scream of fear died, new ones of panic and confusion came from below them in the theatre itself. Aminta looked out, horrified to find a man hanging from the rafters over the stage, his eyes glazed and lifeless.

An unfamiliar voice called out below them. "He's back! Oh God, somebody fetch the managers, and quickly!"

Buahaha! I know, it's crap. Inspired by an RP where I played Erik, anything and everything that has to do with Aminta is awkward for me to write. This is going to be a loooooong phic, so stay tuned for the next chapter.


	2. He's back!

Paris, France – 1876

The reconstruction of the Opera was Hell on Erik's patience, something he had never had very much of to begin with. The infamous Opera Ghost did not take well to boredom, but what other choice did he have; he had caused the damage, what else could be done but wait for it to be repaired?

Sometimes, though, it was simply too much. When his patience would wear too thin the Ghost would content himself with killing a few of the mindless construction workers who he knew would never be missed. He had never been one to kill for sport, but it certainly was better than killing himself.

No matter how he had pleaded to die when she left, no matter how he had threatened to kill himself if he didn't die of grief first, the Phantom of the Opera feared death. Living on Earth was as close to Hell as he had come, but he didn't at all fancy eternal damnation for his crimes, the rest of forever spent in a Hell worse than this one. Nor did he particularly like the idea of going to Heaven to spend his afterlife with the God who had damned him (not as if that was an option, of course. One who had committed so many crimes as he does not go to Heaven without some sort of reckoning first, he remembered that much of his lessons as a boy). The Ghost didn't like the idea of wandering in Purgatory either, so what choice did he have but to live?

Construction was nearly complete, though, and Erik had decided the people in his kingdom had gone far too long without knowing who controlled their every thought and action. Tonight's killing would not be for sport, the innocent soul would not simply disappear off the face of the earth like the others had. No, that wouldn't make much of an impact at all.

This man, though, was incredibly dim. Erik paced silently and unseen, the only thing keeping his victim's short attention span focused was the occasional intentional rustle and movement in the shadows, which more often than not was not the Opera Ghost at all, rather a pre-placed prop that would move of its own accord or make popping sounds that sounded rather like footprints on a ladder.

The length of the Punjab Lasso fell through his gloved fingertips as he coiled and uncoiled the rope in a move that suggested the holder was anxious. And why shouldn't he be? He had been dormant far to long, it had been ages since he had last heard the nearly physically gratifying sounds of panicked humans. Finally! The man was close enough to the Ghost and far enough away from his peers, and with a skilled flick of the wrist the Phantom let the Punjab fly, expertly catching the unsuspecting dolt by the neck. In far more than an instant the man was suffocated (that was the intention, of course; not only did it create a far more intimidating corpse, Erik was forced to suffer daily pain, why should his victims be spared it?), strangled by the very string of catgut that was winding itself for the final time in its master's leather-encased hand.

Erik began the difficult journey of bringing the man to where he would be discovered; kidnapping ninety pound divas was easy, but moving the dead bulk of a full grown, overweight men was another matter entirely. He was a strong man himself, though, and after a few minutes of dragging the corpse up a ladder to the catwalk, a different rope was placed around the man's neck (for the Punjab was far too valuable a weapon to be left in the care of a dead idiot) and his body pushed off the catwalk.

Instant gratification! What a sight it must have been, a man whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time hanging dead from the catwalk, neck broken now from the second fall, all life drained from him. The Opera Ghost's eyes flashed wickedly as a man immediately shouted below him, and the sweet, sweet sound of a woman's scream pierced the air.

"He's back! Oh God, somebody fetch the managers, and quickly!"

Finally the world had realized the Opera Ghost had not died, that he was still alive and well, and as dangerous as ever. The screams echoed and grew as the story spread through the Opera like a wildfire (rumors had a bad habit of doing that in an Opera House…). The managers had been brought, and realizing their worst fears had come true began immediately barking orders.

"Alright everyone, settle down. Someone, take him down from there…" Richard Firmin's orders were obeyed immediately and he continued. "Now, did anyone here see anything?"

One of the men groaned and rolled his eyes. "Of course not, you half-wit. He's a God damned Ghost!" This only seemed to increase the panic among the superstitious workers, a thing the Opera Ghost's ego was feasting on.

Quite satisfied with himself, Erik turned from the scene to one of the many trapdoors leading to his home by the underground lake to compose his ultimatum. It was then a sound reached his ears, only one with musically-trained ears as his would have caught through the panic below.

The Summoning of Angels. The Opera Ghost straightened noticeably… well, noticeably if he could be seen. Had she returned? Had that treacherous snake returned to her master? No other knew his summon, unless Christine had further betrayed him.

Several emotions, most rather similar to boiling anger, compelled Erik to investigate. Echoes were easy to locate in an Opera house (more so when he had helped build it and designed its acoustics), and his sharp though aging eyes could not believe what they were seeing.

Inside his box; HIS box, Erik seethed; a group of people in the strangest manner of dress stood all looking rather frightened and disoriented. If he didn't know better, he would even venture to say one was the Persian.

"What the Hell..?" he breathed, deciding to wait in the shadows a bit and continue his investigation. A letter of demands could wait, and as he knew the managers were awaiting one, the suspense might actually help see his needs were properly seen to.

MelG: Yes, it is a rather despie-ish idea, I realize this. Though it will have some fluff, it has an ending I promise (unless you've read the RP), none of you will expect. It is the best RP I have ever been part of, full of twists and turns. XD Thank you for your encouragements.

Lack of spelling errors thanks, in part, to Microsoft Word ooo, aaaa


End file.
